Open
by streco
Summary: Roger always left a door open. [MarkRoger friendship]


_Open_

The door to the loft had been left open, he had discovered upon climbing the stairs to the top of the apartment building. For a moment, he almost suspected that someone had raided the loft, perhaps stolen something of his or a former inhabitant's, but once he stepped foot in, something about the air whispered to him that all was well in the building.

The one place he had at one point been able to navigate blindfolded and backwards was now almost alien; he hadn't entered it for quite a long time. Ever since Roger passed, he'd spent most of his time with Maureen and Joanne, or Collins, who'd returned to his job at NYU.

Something about Bohemia had fucked him over, he decided at that exact moment, when the situation he was in smacked him full-force on the side of the head. Bohemia was about living for the moment, loving what you had before it was gone. How were you supposed to love what was already gone? What if he had nothing to live for, what if what he _wanted _to live for had already been lived?

_Then that's not living_, he told himself vaguely, walking over to the fridge and almost falling through the Barely-There floorboard, as Roger had cleverly named it. They'd discovered one too many times that if you put too much weight on it, you could fall through one full story to The Scary Guy Downstairs' apartment.

_Maybe I should just kill myself_, he thought to himself, not taking the reality of it at all. He fished a beer out of the fridge and popped the top with his teeth, tossing the cap away without setting hands on it.

A chill rippled down his spine, a chill that produced a picture of April behind his retinas. Without meaning to, his breath hitched, and his eyes flitted to the bathroom door. Just like that, he was back a few years, sitting next to Roger, angled over the bathtub, trying to wake the fire-haired girl up from a "nap."

Subconsciously he noted that the beer bottle had long since fallen from his hand and the alcohol was now sinking into his shoes, but the late reaction was just that, rendering him soused. Muttering a swear, he dropped to his knees and picked up the fragments of glass that had scattered across the floor.

When he straightened up, he realized that a small piece of glass in the shape of a grand piano had lead him to Roger's room, either that or his brain had finally unhinged from the roots of sanity. He knew that the crooked door they'd precariously hung and placed a room around had belonged to Roger and was full of things that would remind him of his old friend.

Abandoning the glass where it had fallen, he stretched to his full height and approached the bedroom door with great tutelage and care, nigh afraid of what was about to be revealed behind door number one.

His frozen hand came in contact with the just as frigid doorknob and created a heat unlike any other: His heart began to race as the room was revealed before his very eyes.

Thousands of posters greeted his eyes, posters from CBGB's, the old Well Hungarian posters, and even the band that he, Roger, and Maureen had thrown together in their teenage years: Holes in the Pavement; Maureen being their lead singer and bassist, Mark on drums, and Roger on guitar and back up vocals.

A collection of Beatles CD's hung off of the far wall, covering all of the chipped paint, sporting every disc from Abbey Road to Rubber Soul. A poster of Jimi Hendrix was on the wall to his left, and on the right, a large collage of pictures from Roger's life. The biggest one was a picture of "The Six Originals," as Roger called them.

First was Mark, holding his camera in one hand, his other arm wrapped around Maureen's shoulder. Maureen was kissing Collins' cheek, and Collins had bunny ears over Benny's head. Next to Benny was April, both arms around Roger's neck, one leg in the air, her lips on his cheek. Roger looked utterly smitten, his face flushed, but still sported a smile for the camera.

Tears bubbled in his eyes.

The bed was made, a rare feat in the Davis bedroom. However, one thing confused him: there was a shoebox sticking out from underneath it, the top open.

The box was open.

He dove to his knees and reached for the box, pulling it closer to him. It was labeled _Films of Roger_ in Roger's infamous bubble letters that he'd spent one whole summer teaching Mark how to do. Discarding all information about bubble letters, he rummaged through the film reels, the tears now tumbling on top of the box sloppily.

In a flash, he'd found his projector, set it up, and placed the first film in the reel, labeled "Sunday in the Park with Roger." This was of Roger at a park, wearing a blanket you'd sit on at a picnic on his head like some sort of hat and Collins' FBI sunglasses.

The film began with him just sitting there, not moving at all.

"Hello," he said in a deep voice, not changing his studious expression. "I'm here to inform you that Yogi, King of the Pic-A-Nic Baskets, has come to child-kidnap your girlfriend and eat your babies."

Then, he stood in one place, poked the air with his index finger, and slowly bent his knees, making it look like he was taking an "elevator" through the grass of the park.

He laughed. Hard. Why was Roger such a doof sometimes?

He popped in the next film, and then the next one, and had eventually watched every film in the box, except for one that had clearly been meant for the bottom of the box.

"While My Guitar Gently Weeps," it was labeled. For a brief moment, he choked on the atmosphere around him, because he knew for a fact that it had been Roger's favorite song; he'd always been a George Harrison fan.

He plucked the film from the box and eased it into the projector, not wanting to destroy the last memories of his friend.

There, on the film, was Roger, the way he'd looked a week before he died.

His hair was long, down to maybe his shoulders, even in the front. Though he must've known he was dying, his green eyes still glimmered with the sparkle they always possessed. As always, he was clad in his leather jacket and his—wait, were those plaid pants?

And suddenly, Mark didn't feel like the carapace of the person he'd once been.

He burst into uproarious hysterics, nearly falling off of the stool he'd been sitting on. So clearly he could remember the day when Roger had stolen those from the old Scarsdale Wal-Mart, and they'd been chased in a vicious fight with the law... and they'd been laughing the whole time. And in the end, Roger got to keep the pants.

"Hey," Roger smiled, his white teeth shooting through, even just on a projection. "It's me!" he shouted in a girly voice, and then laughed. "I assume this is Mark, no? Because I'm guessing you'd be the only one to go back into my room and notice the open box coming out of my bed... but that's just because you've always been an open person, Mark." He winked. "No, not really. You're probably about the most closed person I've ever met, but that doesn't mean I don't love you!"

Through the tears that had already sprung to his eyes, Mark laughed.

Roger sighed and eased over to his guitar, picking a few chords out of it. "So, tell me what's going on in your life right now."

Mark stared.

"I'm fucking serious, you douche." It seemed that Roger knew everything that Mark was going to do. _Shows how much he knew about me_, Mark mused. "I know you're staring at me like I'm a freak right now, but I'm serious. Swear to God I'm in hell going, 'Damn it! I wish I was better so I could know what was going on with Mark!' So I'm gonna ask you to pause the film, and then just rant about every single thing that's happened since I kicked thy bucket o' life."

What was he to think of this? Slowly, Mark rose to his feet and paused the projection, and then simply exploded, telling how Collins had gone back to NYU and how he'd been staying with Maureen and Joanne, and how things just weren't the same, and how he hoped Roger could see Mimi and Angel in heaven, and he could have more talks with April, and how he hoped everything was okay.

When he was finally spent, tear-wise and rant-wise, he un-paused the video and settled himself into his seat.

"All right, good. I'm probably getting that info right now going, 'That son of a bitch really listened to me!' And if you didn't do what I told you to... I'm going to come haunt you tonight." He wiggled his fingers immaturely and then laughed. "Haha—no, I'm serious. I'll probably eat your soul or something." He shrugged.

The idea of that sort of frightened Mark.

"Okay, I guess I should get serious," he sighed, and then leaned forward on the chair. "Mark, I knew I was dying from the moment I first started coughing. It was like someone up there told me that I was just going to start to go... and I was scared. I told you, remember? I told you how scared I was... and you listened, like you always have. You could always read me like an open book."

Then, with those piercing eyes again, he stared directly at Mark through the projection. "But you never were one. I could still read you, Mark Cohen, but it was like you wanted me _out_. You didn't _want _me to read you. When your Dad died? The moment you got off the phone and made that perfect face—I knew. _That _was why that suit appeared in your closet. I bought it for you."

Just like that, the clock in the corner stopped ticking and Mark had frozen. That had been... _Roger?_

"Yes, you fucker, that was me. That's how much I care about you. And listen, I guarantee you want to watch this video 24/7 now... or maybe not. But don't do that, okay? Because then when people ask if you miss me, you say yeah, and all you have is this video... I want this to mean a lot to you, okay? Like, when you have little Mark Jr.'s running around everywhere, and Markarella's, let them watch this video.

"HIV isn't fun, Mark. There are thousands of things I wanted to do, thousands of things I couldn't say. You were the best friend I ever had, and I love you, man, and I'll see you on the other side." He winked one last time and stepped forward, flipping the lens off with a grin before shutting the camera off.

Mark snapped.

In a heap of sudden, overwhelming emotion, he slipped off of the stool and onto the hardwood floors, sobbing, creating rivers through every crack with his tears. Roger's favorite song started playing, the guitar sounding identical to the Fender, and the vocals just like Roger's.

"_I look at you all, see the love there that's sleeping; while my guitar gently weeps_." Roger's voice burst with emotion, and on the ground, Mark clenched his fists. "_I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping; still, my guitar gently weeps. I don't know why nobody told you how to unfold your love, I don't know how someone controlled you, they bought and sold you._"

Clutching his heart, Mark staggered to his feet and over to the kitchen, where he gave way in front of the sink. Hands shaking, he turned the tap on and ran his hands under the cool water. Why couldn't it be fair? Mark had done everything right in his life, yet his best friend had been stolen from him all too soon. There were too many things Roger didn't get to do. Why did HIV take its toll on _his _family?

"_I look at the world and I notice it's turning; while my guitar gently weeps. With every mistake we must surely be learning; still my guitar gently weeps. I don't know how you were diverted, you were perverted too. I don't know how you were inverted, no one alerted you_."

With another strangled cry, Mark shut off the water and closed his eyes, picturing a perfect world with he and Roger, best friends, both of them alive and well...

Suddenly, Mark's head snapped up and, through his tears, he eyed the TV... where Roger was playing his guitar and singing this song. "_I look at you and see all the love there that's sleeping; while my guitar gently weeps._" His head came up from the guitar and he smiled at the lens of the camera, singing the last line. "_Still my guitar gently weeps_."

With a click, it was all over, and Mark was left bawling in the empty loft. The sound of his own anguish was an odd one to his own ears; he knew for a fact that he hadn't cried much.

No matter what Roger had done, he'd left the door open, always. _But what about now? _Mark thought, _what about now, when every door possible is closed? How can Roger leave the door open when he's gone?_

"Why, Roger?" Mark shouted, his voice cracking painfully. "Why? Why would you do this to me, Roger? After all we've been through? After everything we've done? Why die on me now? _You're all I have left!_" he exclaimed, wheezing, trying to find somewhere to breathe through, "You're all I fucking had left, Roger Davis! And now you're gone!"

Mark's world was spinning, and Roger was everywhere in the loft. The walls were closing in and his mind was fading to ash, burning Roger's face out of his memory. How could this be happening? How could someone so full of life suddenly be gone?

"I need to get out of here," he told himself, trying to remain calm, though hysteria was all he felt. In rapid time he'd gathered every important thing to him (along with the box of Roger's films and a small bag filled with clothes) and steered his way out of his old home, not bothering to look back when he tripped over the threshold.

On his way out of the loft, he left the door open.

**A/N:** My goal with this was to make you cry. I guarantee it didn't because I added humor in, but I just wanted to write a depressing fic.

The end is terrible. I don't know if I like the beginning, but when Martin Luther McCoy sings this song by George Harrison, it almost makes me cry. Beautiful, beautiful song.

Review?

–Steph.


End file.
